close your eyes and see
by gaygypsybarmitzva4thedisabled
Summary: a collection of Derek, Stiles, and Sterek-centric ficlets.
1. you are (the only one who needs to know)

**you are (the only one who needs to know)**

It's sometime after the Alpha pack and before the thing with the pixies that Stiles drags his red-wolfsbane'd ass out of the Jeep with a series of grunts and wheezes. "What, are you_ made of muscle_? Jesus, man, thats terrifying."

Derek giggles against Stiles' shoulder.

"Dude, you are so fucking high right now. You're, like, _smiling_. You know what? Fuck that. You should take this shit more often. If it wasn't all toxic as fuck, obviously. C'mon, we're going up some stairs. I'm not Superman, Lois Lane, I can't just carry you through the sky, these are human arms and you weigh a freaking _ton_."

Derek snorts and said, "Yeah. Yeah, because…" he cracks himself up for about fifteen seconds while Stiles manhandles him into the shower. "Cuz you're Lois. With the, the research, and the… um. The stuff. And the other stuff, y'know?"

"Not a clue," Stiles says cheerfully, dunking Derek's head under the stream of icy water. "This should get rid of most of it. You'll be back to your sour old self in no time. Dude, are you humming AAR?"

He is, in fact, humming AAR. Actually, Stiles realizes, because Stiles knows these things, he's humming "Dirty Little Secret," circa 2005.

And suddenly everything is terrible. Not the singing, which is, admittedly, terrible, but the song, and the year, because Stiles has been poking around, as he always does and always, always regrets, and he'd found out— things. About Kate Argent. About Derek. About Kate Argent and Derek.

Together.

In secret.

In 2005.

Because apparently, every time Stiles looked into something wolfy, the prize behind door number two was, "Derek Hale has the worst luck ever, and maybe you should give him a hug or a pizza or something, because seriously."

And now Derek's slouched in Stiles' shower, fully clothed and soaking wet, high on red wolfsbane that hopefully won't kill him, singing about the ex who murdered his family, because he's _that_ fucking out of it.

And he's shivering, he's grinning crookedly at Stiles but he's shivering, and Stiles can see he's on his way down, and that crash isn't gonna be pretty.

So Stiles, he of suicidal schemes and and the kind of brain that just won't shut up until he takes direction, takes off his shoes and climbs into the shower to give Derek a hug.

It's very wet and very cold and very trembly, but Derek goes completely boneless against him, and sings something that sounds disturbingly like Cascada in the air around his ear.

"Yeah, those are definitely not the right lyrics, dude." His fingertips are going pruney and numb. Still. The Brain has spoken. Awkward shower hug and unspoken apology for all the shit that life has thrown at Derek, not to mention that Stiles had thrown at Derek back when he assumed the werewolf was a murdery asshole. Yes. This is only fair.

Also, while awkward as fuck, this isn't entirely… bad, exactly. The whole sitting with Derek thing. And Derek being happy. Even this fake poisonous werewolf-pot happy.

Which, okay, is not the hugest surprise ever, actually. Because Stiles has been on a journey of discovering that the Alpha is an actual mostly-human person with, like, emotions, for a while now.

In any case, Derek is cold. And has fallen asleep on Stiles' shoulder. With a big stupid crooked grin on his face.

So.

Stiles is in no rush to move, is all.

* * *

post s2.

title from _dirty little secret_ by _all american rejects_


	2. there's nowhere else for me to go

**there's nowhere else for me to go**

They say blood smells like pennies, but the truth is, pennies smell like blood. The truth is, everything smells like blood, because blood smells like everything, because it's everywhere: veins and banks and tubes and bags and air and water and dirt. Blood is a better fertilizer than shit, than the store-bought crap mass-produced to fertilize. There's blood pumping hearts and jumping pulses, tainting the water and the grass and all that beautiful fresh air people love to talk about, that nature smell, that's blood and shit and blood in the shit, too.

You tasted Kate Argent's blood once; it was an accident. Your first time with a human, your first time at all, and you want to be careful and gentle and safe but she's lying there looking _bored_ and you're thinking about the humans she must have had, the ones who didn't have to hold back, and she says, _Hurt me, I can take it._

She says, _All bark and no bite? Sweetie. _Disappointed, you're disappointing. You're no good at this, how can you be no good at this? She's human, how can she be more animal than you?

She says, _C'mon, puppy. Show me your teeth._

You're not a puppy, you're a predator. You could chew her up and spit her out if you wanted to. But you don't want to. You want to be careful and gentle and safe, you don't want to scare her. You don't want to break her.

You're a monster, but you don't want to be one.

She wants you to be one.

So you snarl, you let your teeth grow and sharpen, your nails turn to claws, you let her think you're feral.

_Look at you,_ she says. _Oh, sweetie. Look at you._

You're not sweet and she's not fragile, except in all the ways that matter. You scrape your claws on her headboard; she laughs. You love her but you hate her laugh, the way it curls like a secret, goes sharp like the hunter's knife in Laura's story book. You love her but it sounds like the joke's on you, like Peter's face when you fall for one of his pranks again. (You love Peter but your wolf doesn't trust him; your wolf doesn't trust Kate, either, but she's strange, human, non-pack, she's the first one who got this close, your wolf's just protective, your wolf's just paranoid, your wolf doesn't trust Peter and Peter is pack, so. So there.)

Just for a second, you let go.

It's not a bite; it's barely a scratch, but her blood is on your teeth and you're shrinking back into yourself, making yourself harmless, you're reaching out with human hands to reassure, to soothe, to fix the damage. There's something dark in her eyes now, something new, and her blood tastes like blood and bleach and batteries, like gun oil and wolfsbane, and your wolf screams warnings and you scream shut up shut up shut up, stop ruining this for me, I love her, I love her I love her I love her, I know what I'm doing, I don't need your help. You've never wanted to be human before, and you still don't, not really, but she makes you wish there was less of you, or more of you, makes you wish you knew what she wanted so you could change and be right, so she'd stop laughing. There's blood on your teeth, and she's not laughing; she's looking at you like a predator looks at prey, like she can hurt you if she wants to, and the thing is, you love her, and the thing is, in all the ways that matter, she can.

(The thing is, she does, and you still love her under all the hate; you love Peter too, even after he takes Laura. It's deeper than instinct, deeper than wolves; if you could reach under your spine and pull it out, you would, but you'll always be trusting and naïve and hopeful, you'll always be an idiot, even if you lie and say you're dead inside, even if you swear you'll never care again, all you do is care, that's the point, that's why you keep breaking, that's why you keep putting yourself back together again.)

You tasted Kate Argent's blood once, you didn't want to but it was all you wanted, you wanted to be the animal you thought she wanted, you wanted to be right, you wanted to be enough, you wanted to be extraordinary, but with it thick on your tongue you didn't feel powerful, you felt weak and tired of being both sides of you, of being wrong, always.

With Gerard's black blood on your tongue you have the strangest sense of deja vu. You could vomit, you could lay down and die, you could burst into tears or burst out laughing. You're weak and tired of pretending to be strong; you're an idiot and you're tired of pretending to have the answers; you're Alpha except in all the ways that matter, because in all the ways that matter you're still sixteen and an idiot, showing your teeth because you don't have anything else to offer.

(You won't forgive Scott, but it won't matter; you'll still die for him even if it's him cutting your heart out, cutting you in half. It's deeper than wolves and deeper than spines, it's you being stupid again. You'll save his life and he'll fuck you over, and you won't forgive him but you won't learn, either. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, and you feel older than you have any right to be, and you've been tricked a thousand times and you'll be tricked a thousand more, and you'll swallow blood because there's blood on everything, blood in everything, blood in air and water and shit, you'll swallow blood because it's everything you'll ever get to keep, you'll swallow shit because it's all anyone will ever give you, and you'll hate them, but you'll love them in all the ways that matter, because they took the time to spit in your face, because they're the ones who stop you from breaking, and they're the ones who stop you from putting yourself back together, and you don't deserve together. Your house is blood and bone and ash because you're an idiot in all the ways that matter, and shit is all you'll ever deserve.)

* * *

tag to 2.12, _master plan_.  
chapter title from _my backwards walk_ by _frightened rabbit._


	3. nothing to cry about

Stiles finds him outside the morgue, hunched over, soaking wet from the still-drizzling rain, so Stiles doesn't think much of how he's trembling hard enough that drops of water are sliding off him with every shudder. Stiles is about to say something, his mouth already open, his brain still working, when Derek speaks, low and destroyed, teeth grit, like he's pulling a barb through his skin.

"Everyone around me gets hurt."

Whatever Stiles was expecting, it wasn't that. It wasn't Derek Hale curled in on himself, crying, _confessing_. But then Stiles thinks of the ashes of Derek's family, and how his old health-hazard of a house was seized by the county; thinks of Peter being absolutely insane, and Laura being half a body Derek buried by hand in his front yard. And he thinks of Erica, so cold and pale and still on that morgue table, and he thinks- he thinks he might understand Derek, suddenly seeing him in a way he's never seen him before. Derek's an alpha, an adult, a source of knowledge, he's impossible to kill and there's not a supernatural thing that won't try anyway, he's two hundred pounds of pure muscle and flat sarcasm and eyebrows and bossy attitude. But underneath he's more or less like the rest of them, like Scott after his dad took off, like Dad after Mom. Like Stiles, actually, maybe most of all, with the sarcasm and the hyper-vigilance and the empty threats, all talk and no action, and underneath he's scared, and powerless, and _human_.

It kind of blows Stiles' mind.

Almost immediately after this new awareness comes the panic- What is Stiles supposed to say to that? Is he supposed to say something comforting, _Chin up, Derek_, is he supposed to crack a joke, lighten the mood, is he supposed to share, empathize-

Yeah, okay, maybe that's an idea. Maybe that's something. He steps closer, close enough that he can see the tattoo down the back of Derek's soaked shirt, remember the story of how he got it. He thinks of sharing, rethinks.

He says, too casual, hating how strange his voice sounds, distant, seperate from him, "Dude, this is Beacon Hills. No one's safe, y'know? It's a shitty small town full of monsters and monster hunters. It's like _Buffy_. People die all the time on that show. It's just what they do."

Derek doesn't say anything and Stiles thinks, _Shit, shit, I've made it worse_. He backtracks.

"I mean it's still awful, obviously. Losing people sucks," he says awkwardly. "My mom-" But he rethinks that, too. "It just sucks. But I mean it's not, like- I mean what were you supposed to _do_, right?"

"Not bite her," Derek says, voice horribly raw. "Train them better. Be a better Alpha. Not-" his voice catches, and Stiles' fingers knit together and twist into knots. "I was an idiot," Derek says. "I thought if I just kept looking over my shoulder…" He huffs, like he's laughing at himself, and Stiles licks his lip, nervous. "I thought it could be different this time: Not…"

"The barricade scene of_ Les Miserables_? Yeah, I know," Stiles says, voice more careful than he would've thought possible. "But we all screwed up. I mean what did I bring to the table? The betas scattered, Scott's big master plan didn't even kill Grandpa Evil, Allison went off the rails- None of us have a clue what we're doing."

"You weren't _responsible_ for them," Derek snaps. "They weren't counting on you to know what you were doing."

Stiles caps the back of his head with his palm, fingers in his weirdly long hair, comes a couple inches closer, lowers his voice a little bit lower, like this is important, like this isn't like everything that comes out of his mouth, even though it's just the same words and he's not good at this, at big emotional conversations, when his reflex is to laugh it off and move on. He fakes it, anyway; fakes it with his dad, both of them straining awkwardly to fill a too-empty space in every conversation, fakes it by letting his eyes go wide and his voice go soft and trying to be reasonable and logical and just- honest, even if he's dying to just break the tension already.

"Yeah, well Deaton's been just as useless, and Allison's dad somehow missed the memo that his family is a great big barrel of sociopaths, so-"

"That doesn't change anything," Derek says, and Stiles doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything, nudging the lip of a nearby puddle with the toe of his sneaker. "She's still dead," Derek says, and there's nothing to argue about there. "Erica's still gonna be dead, Stiles, and no matter how many excuses you try to find for me, it's still gonna be my fault."

"Yeah," Stiles hears himself say. Derek's back stiffens, knobs of his spine sharp through his thin damp t-shirt. "Yeah, maybe," Stiles admits, because Derek can tell when he's lying anyway, can't he. So what's the point? "So what are you gonna to do about it?"

Derek bows his head further; it's a disturbing angle. Makes him seem headless if Stiles looks at him wrong. "I don't know," Derek says, low and wrecked, and Stiles wants to shake him, wants to fake a laugh and fix it, but that's not going to help, here.

"C'mon," Stiles says, more determined now. "Someone killed Erica. Your beta. What are you gonna do about it? You gonna just sit there and let them get away with it? She mean that little to you?"

"No," Derek says sharply, like he's shocked by the thought. "Of course not." He unfolds, straightens his spine, shifts into his tallest shape like a Transformer. "I'll kill them," he says, voice hard again, steel, reminding Stiles of that night, outside the pool, Derek snarling murder plans about the kanima. "I'll kill all of them."

Well, maybe Stiles' methods are too bloodthirsty for some, but sometimes revenge is all you have left, y'know? There's a danger out there, and someone needs to fight it, and it's probably gonna be them. So what's the harm in a little cheerleading along the way?

Stiles has his own guilt, shoved down as deep as it can go. Erica in chains above him, Boyd in tears. He's as much responsible as Derek is, whatever he says. And it was obvious Derek was in over his head, it was _obvious_, they could've done something. Prevented this.

But it's done, she's dead, and something's coming. Something bad. So it really doesn't matter what's whose fault right now. There's like a million other more important things to worry about.

So they'll figure out a plan, and they'll fight, together. And maybe they'll survive it and maybe they won't. But they'll try, okay? They'll pull together and not waste time being paranoid assholes, they won't have a billion stupid agendas, and maybe, if everyone survives, they'll sit down and divvy up the blame. Figure out who owes what to who and how long they have to torture themselves before they're forgiven.

Maybe everything'll go to hell even worse and there won't be a reunion scene. Everyone's probably going to die sooner or later. It'll probably kill the survivors even worse, turn them all into Winchesters. Who fucking knows.

Stiles is tired, okay, but he's not rolling over, he's not just watching the world fall apart around him. If there's still something to save, he's grabbing it and holding on, keeping its head above water as long as it takes. Scott. Dad. Lydia. Boyd and Isaac and even Derek. Which means not letting it bug him when Scott and Isaac bond, and keeping Dad in the dark, and letting Lydia go, learning to know her in a different way. Means playing nice with the betas, and giving Derek a pep talk every now and then, and maybe figuring out what the hell mountain ash is actually good for that doesn't accidentally get Scott murdered. Means standing over Derek's shoulder, maybe, and coming around to his side, while he swipes still-drying tears from his cheeks, tries to look menacing.

"Yeah," Stiles says, and loops his arm around Derek's shoulders, completely ruining the threatening eyebrows-glare-scowl trio on Derek's face. He's only half surprised that Derek doesn't push him away. "Yeah, that's a good starting point, anyway," he says, and then he says, voice casual and steady and almost bright, "So, Alpha pack, huh? How does that work?"

* * *

title from _i will follow you into the dark _by _death cab for cutie_

tag to 3.01, _tattoo_


	4. AHHHHHHHHHH

When Stiles folds, head in his hands, Derek catches him, free arm winding around his shoulders, palm careful around his jaw, looking into his eyes. "Stiles?"

"Mmhmph?" Stiles says, and swears at his throbbing skull. "Magical hangovers are the worst," he mutters, burying his face in Derek's shirt. It doesn't seem to help; he squirms, makes an unhappy noise against Derek's neck.

And then there are warm wide palms on his cheeks and a rush of painlessness that has Stiles looking up appreciatively. "You are the best-" but Derek is going pale, paler, stumbling slightly. Stiles takes Derek's hands by the wrists and drags them off his skin. The effect is immediate, the throbbing back between his eyes, but he gets the two of them to a bed and sweeps Derek's hair off his forehead before lying down and closing his eyes.

"You're the real," Stiles says seriously, "the greatest-" His hands go to the sudden kick in his head, and he forgets how to make human noises. Derek reaches out a hand and siphons off a layer of pain, makes it bearable.

"I love you," Stiles says.

"You don't have to yell," Derek says grumpily.

* * *

a.n.: I DON'T KNOW OKAY.

title from _aluminum_ by _the white stripes_


End file.
